Lest We Forget: The First Annual Hunger Games
by Andii99
Summary: ' Each District must offer two tributes, one male and one female between the ages of 12 and 18 to compete in an arena; in a battle to the death. The last tribute standing shall be named the Victor' As the Age of the Capitol begins, the Districts face their biggest fight yet. The Hunger Games are upon us, and the odds are never in our favour SYOT
1. Prologue:And So It Begins

**Holden DeMontford, President of Panem.**

After years of my beloved Panem playing host to war, of the Capitol being threatened by the savage Districts: The exquisite taste of Victory is mine for the taking. Mere hours ago, the fate of Panem still hung in the balance. The world was at risk of being turned upside down. With the vicious Rebel leaders reigning over the Capitolites and their superior breeding. But the children of the Capitol can sleep restfully tonight: A hero came forward to end this war and ensure the Capitol supremacy. That hero is I, Holden Coriolanus DeMontford.

In my short tenure as President, my penchant for strategy has allowed me to utilise the resources available to the Capitol. Ending the District's pathetic attempts to seize power from those that surpass them in every way, and cementing the Capitol's legacy as the leaders of Panem. As soon as I was informed that the Capitol Armed Services, or as they are fondly referred to by Capitolites as 'Peacekeepers', were able to shut off the trade routes between the Districts: It was evident that this war was over.

Shortly afterwards I was able to ensure that the Peacekeepers assumed control of the Rebel Bases, and without the resources and the 'safe houses' which gave them the chance to organise attacks against the Capitol: Their efforts became futile. Many laid down their weapons, tucking their tails between their legs like the animals they are. But some, they may be considered 'courageous' or more accurately stupid, continued to fight against the Capitol's forces despite knowing their inevitable fate. The Dark Days came to an end and, as President, it is my duty to shepherd Panem into a new age: An age of light and prosperity for the Capitol.

Now however, I find myself celebrating the Capitol's victory with those who were pivotal in guaranteeing the Districts' downfall. Those who provided the counsel on eliminating every threat we, as the Capitol, faced. The delicate thrum of Debussy provides an ambient atmosphere as the liqueur flows generously. I myself favour water knowing that as we navigate towards the Age of the Capitol, it is most prudent to keep my wits about me. I smile indulgently as sincere compliments are offered by my cabinet of advisors.

"Genius, if I say so myself… Neutralising 13 with radiation and forcing them underground like the vermin they are. Genius…"

Harold Merriweather was usually a stoic man, but his reddened face revealed his inebriated state. He continued to ramble, stating facts I was already well aware of as I was the one who had orchestrated the systematic destruction of the graphite District. A genial smile remained on my face, luxuriating in the compliments thrown my way and basking in the knowledge that the Capitol had maintained its firm control over the Nation. Debussy had been replaced by Bach, but the joyful camaraderie had given way to more serious topics of discussion. Evidently it was only Merriweather who had overindulged on the alcoholic front.

"How do you propose we prevent something like this happening again? War is inevitable…" Niall Jensen opened the forum of discussion, although it dampened the celebratory mood. The things he'd expressed were genuine causes for concern. The Capitol had advantages with the technology available, but the Districts held the highest number of available combatants. Silence reigned over those gathered in my lavish living quarters until Merriweather roused momentarily from his slumber.

"Public execution, we just kill them all. Problem solved" He punctuated his brash statement by banging his flabby fist against the mahogany writing desk where he had perched. His statement, while illogical and downright absurd, was humorous and most of those gathered began to laugh at Merriweather's notion. Sabrina Fenton, on the other hand, had little patience for such things. Running her willowy fingers through her moss coloured hair, and narrowing her obsidian eyes on the man who'd just spoken.

"And who exactly would do everything Harold? I swear that if you were in possession of one shred of intelligence, you'd be a dangerous man. You see, I did not fund the war effort so that my children, and the future generations of the Capitol, would be mining coal like vagrants. We need a workforce, the Districts provide that…or would you all prefer to tarnish the Capitol's reputation by having us labour like common tramps."

Sabrina openly challenged anyone to dispute what she was saying, nobody did. She smirked triumphantly at the acceptance of what she'd said; unfortunately this allowed the other occupants of the room to begin broadcasting their opinions on how the Capitol should maintain an ironclad grasp on Panem and control over the districts. The cacophony of voices became a wall of sound, and I rubbed at my temples to banish an oncoming migraine as I filtered out some of the more absurd suggestions.

"If I may…"

A saccharine sweet voice rung out: Rendering the room silent. Corrine Snow came forward from where she had been residing all evening, a small armchair nearest my collection of tomes that I'd accumulated over the years. With her platinum hair falling in gentle waves, and the soft angles of her face many would assume that she were nothing more than a beautiful woman destined for life as a Capitolite housewife. They were wrong in so many ways, you need only to observe the way she waltzed with lethal grace to suspect she was not as dainty as her stature would imply. But if you looked into her cold cerulean eyes, belying the shrewdness of her character and glimmering with her vindictive nature, you would not doubt that she is ranked amongst the most dangerous people to roam Panem.

Corrine Snow may be the reason that the Capitol prevailed. A renowned biochemical engineer, who single handily designed and constructed a large portion of the weaponry exploited by our forces. She was not one to speak often, but when she did speak it was wise to listen. I felt myself leaning forwards and focussing all my attention on her slight figure. Once it was clear that everyone was listening intently, she bared her teeth in what could be construed as a smile.

"As of now, the Districts fear how we would retaliate if they were to lash out at us again, they don't know what tricks may be hidden beneath our proverbial sleeves. Fear rules the actions of the Districts. They fear us, and therefore they're acting in whichever way they feel will result in our showing them mercy."

Corrine paused for a nanosecond, her words painting an image of the Districts' subservience. I could feel the smugness radiating from the rooms occupants; they're grins growing by the second. Rather than copying their actions, I remained focussed on Corrine. She would not have spoken if only to stroke the egos of Panem's elite. She caught my gaze and raised an eyebrow, silently questioning if I would like her to continue. I simply gestured for her to do so, clearing my throat to bring the focus back to the matter at hand.

"Thank you, Holden. As I said, their fear of our retribution is what is preventing them from attacking the Capitol. For now, for I am sure that none of you are naïve enough to believe that simple fear could control so many people indefinitely…"

Corrine narrowed her eyes at the room at large, and smirked as she saw some people lower their gazes to the ground. Abashed at the young woman exposing their 'naiveté' Corrine's sarcastic admonishment caused a murmur to run through the room. And catching Corrine's eye I knew that she had caught what I had: The bitter aroma of fear.

"So fear is our temporary method of handing the Districts, but there are other things to consider that are far more powerful than fear. Things that could motivate the Districts to rise against us yet again, and I think it correct to say that we all agree that another war would be inconvenient."

As her words sank in, hushed whispers began to traverse the room. The atmosphere began to thicken with the heady perfume of panic, one person however remained unaffected by Snow's statement. Gregor Samsa, an insect like man with lime coloured skin and pinched features, scoffed and cast himself in the role of Devil's advocate. I smirked as Snow remained unaffected by his rude gesture, used to Samsa's controversial methods of approaching issues.

"What is it you're getting at Corrine? I have neither the time, nor the patience, for your worthless rambling."

The tension cut have been cut with a knife, everyone's eye travelled between Gregor and Corrine as if they were watching a tennis match. Rather than responding to the verbal bait, Corrine brushed off his discourteousness and smiled before beginning to walk around the room. Her voice becoming softer, the gentle lilt somehow pulling the focus of the room onto herself. Like a moth to a flame.

"Hope, as long as they have hope there is always the risk: However small, and seemingly insignificant, that may be…That we will face another uprising."

My elbows rested against my desk as my eyes followed Snow across the room, her voice beckoning me to listen. My actions were mirrored by the other members of the cabinet; even Gregor's eyes had lost their glistening arrogance momentarily. He shook his head before clapping his hands together slowly, violet eyes narrowed at Corrine and a patronising grimace twisting his features.

"And tell us, oh knowledgeable one, how we are somehow meant to eradicate hope? Have you been tinkering around in your little lab with a 'Hope Vacuum'?"

I was entranced by the verbal sparring between the two, smirking as Corrine bristled slightly: A raspberry hue marring her pale complexion. Her usually plump lips now a thin line of distaste, her arms folded against her chest as she glares vehemently at her 'opponent'.

"I know that you've always struggled with understanding emotions Gregor, your limited emotional range was justifiably the reason that your marriage ended. But you can't 'eradicate' hope, you can only ever control. Or moderate how much hope the Districts as a collective can have: Or you redirect the source of their hope to something other than overthrowing the Capitol. Turn their aggression from the Capitol towards one another, a Civil War of sorts."

"How?"

Gregor wasted no time in throwing a question at Corrine. I suspected his animosity towards her may have grown even more due to her barb about his marriage: But he had always resented Corrine and attempted to belittle her. It wasn't hard to distinguish the hope in his voice that Corrine wouldn't be able to answer his seemingly innocent question. The flippancy of Corrine as she inspected her nails, however, vanquished that hope.

"I have a rough idea, something I've been contemplating for a while. A pageant of sorts – 24 will compete. A male and female from the 12 remaining Districts, since the general populace believe District 13 to have been completely destroyed—"

"Oh and the winners will get a crown and a sash?"

This errant comment came from Evangeline Islington, an airheaded girl whose generally annoying nature was neutralised by her substantial finances and desire to see the Districts of Panem suffer. Both Corrine and Gregor, their dispute momentarily forgotten, glared at the imbecilic girl. Corrine however was quick to hide her disdain, a feral smile curling her lips.

"This would be unlike any pageants that come before it. There may well be a sash and crown involved, that's undecided: But the main prize for the winner, a singular winner, is that they will get to survive. This isn't a competition of talent rounds, although I believe we could incorporate some elements of a conventional 'Pageant': This is a game that you only win by eliminating the competition."

The tone of her voice left no question as to how the participants would be expected to 'eliminate' one another. And the gasps from around the room told me that everyone had understood the implications, a general buzz of chatter permeates the room and the fear from beforehand has dissolved and gave way to the gentle warmth of anticipation and excitement. And as expected it is Gregor who attempts to discredit the young engineer.

"So, you're grand plan is something along the lines of lining up 24 District children and having 24 Peacekeepers shoot them down, yet one barrel is barren of bullets. That sounds like a simple alternative to your little 'Pageant'"

I struggle to prevent myself from banging my head against my desk; Gregor's antipathy is making him desperately try to discredit Corrine. But the only thing he is succeeding in is making himself look nothing more than a pompous fool. Corrine catches my eye and shakes her head at his rash stupidity.

"No, the Capitol acting out and killing 23 District civilians is basically adding fuel to the fire of hope rather than suppressing it. The key to this whole concept is to alienate the Districts against one another, and since you're incapable of understanding maybe you require an example. A male from District 2 brutally murders the female of District 9, this results in resentment between the two Districts. Therefore the probability of said Districts forming an alliance to take down the Capitol is reduced…Are you all following me?"

My own tenor joins the choral response of agreement throughout the room. I, myself, begin to ponder the logistics of Corrine's proposal and concede that the idea itself, while flawed, is the better than anything I have been able to put together. Gregor's bitterness is palpable as he concedes defeat by emptying his tumbler of Malt Whiskey. He grunts in agreement.

"Okay Corrine, you're right. We throw them all into a room and one comes out."

Gregor's response is met by an exasperated sigh from Corrine who pinches the bridge of her nose. Her gesture appears to radiate frustration, but when she turns her gaze to Gregor her blue eyes are full of pity and it's at that moment that Corrine has cinched absolute victory over Samsa as the people spread throughout the room began to titter at his expense. Gregor's lime complexion began to darken to a forest green in embarrassment and Corrine simply turned her back to the spluttering man, before addressing the room at large.

"Gregor's idea does have 'merit' but it lacks foresight. We need to look at the bigger picture; this concept can be exploited to not only punish and suppress the Districts. This can benefit the Capitol too, both economically and socially: We fashion this as entertainment, make it something that people will talk about. People will have their favourites and could 'sponsor' them throughout the ordeal. But it would be costly, we can manufacture anything they'd need for barely anything but if somebody wants one of the participants to have, a crossbow for example, they'd have to pay a lot which would then be brought back into the Capitol and reinvested into other areas… But that's not all, we could completely alter the relationship between the Capitol and the Districts. We have one 'Victor', we shower them with riches they can take back to their District. We could repeat this every year, the participants would be competing for riches that their District direly needs. Rather than planning an uprising, they'll be more concerned with survival or the glory of being the individual who brought prosperity to their District. They will need us."

A triumphant glimmer made itself known in Corrine's eyes. She had everyone sold on the idea, myself included. I couldn't doubt now that Corrine's genius is what will ensure my ascension to the most revered President in Panem's history. My fingers tingled in anticipation for Corrine's proposal to come into existence, my lips curling in satisfaction that the District's would be reminded time and time again of their powerlessness against the might of the Capitol. This would be what reminded the Districts one and for all, that they should never have bitten the hand that feeds them. As the room remains speechless as they muse over what Snow had said, I stand and all eyes are suddenly fixed on me.

"Corrine, your twisted logic and harrowing intelligence never fail to impress me. In due course, we will have to meet and discuss this 'Pageant' further. But until then, we must celebrate the end of the Dark Days."

My words are greeted with a chorus of cheers as people return to their mundane conversations, about how Tilley Dunois has supposedly devised a dye that would alter the color of people's feces. I, however, seek out Corrine. Her eyes are fixed on me, shining with joy that I have practically given the go ahead for her sordid fantasy to become a reality. She gave me a coy smile before turning her back and leaving the celebration before I could as much as ask her if she'd like a drink. Rather than wasting time in pondering the enigmatic Snow woman, and the consequent migraine, I head towards the liquor cabinet: Long live the Capitol.

* * *

_**It is a fairly generic idea, the 'First Hunger Games' but I am hoping to ensure that this SYOT is interesting and keeps all of you guessing what could happen.**_

_**Saying that leave me a review, and I will send you a Tribute Form if you wish. I will be doing a sponsorship of sorts but I'm trying to refine the 'way' to earn sposnor points- Any pointers here, I would be eternally grateful.**_

_**I reserve the right to select the tributes which I feel are the most developed by subumitters- and I also reserve the right to make any changes (Iwill discuss these with the submitter). If your tribute is accepted I'll message you and update my **_

_**I also need someone to bounce ideas off, as a beta of sorts- so if you're interested let me know via PM and you can listen to the disturbing ideas I have for this story running through my head.**_

_**I ALSO LOVE CREATING TRIBUTES, PLEASE DIRECT ME TO WHEREVER I CAN SUBMIT.**_

_**Question: What do we think of Holden? Corinne? The other 'Elite' of the Capitol?**_

_**That's enough rambling for now,**_

_**Andii99**_


	2. Chapter One: A Meeting of Minds

**Chapter One: A Meeting Of Minds **

**Corrine Snow, Capitol Scientist.**

President DeMontford sits before me, eyes fixated on the large selection of blueprints and various folders of information before him. Contained within these documents is the fruition of numerous hours of research. Endless equations and formulae that have allowed me to breathe life into my whimsical fantasies of oppressing the Districts, science becoming the means of blurring the fine line between fantasy and reality. If I didn't wholeheartedly believe that my mind child, or as DeMontford referred to it offhandedly 'The Hunger Games', would be responsible for economically bettering the Capitol. Or help maintain our stranglehold over the Districts; I would never have brought the proposal forward.

As the silence stretches on, my confidence dissipates. Slowly replaced by apprehension as DeMontford's brow begins to furrow, and he tease his bottom lip with his teeth. I begin to doubt the calculations I had made, had I overestimated his enthusiasm for my idea? No, there is no doubt that my proposed methods of addressing the issue that is the Districts of Panem would enable us both to become iconic: Both of us figures that are feared by the Districts and revered by the Capitol. My vindictive intelligence combined with his effortless charisma would allow us to bring a Nation to its knees.

It's not long until the anxiety that has settled in my stomach begins to make way to a bubbling rage. This man could not have spearheaded the war effort without a shred of intelligence, and strength of character. Such strength may have inoculated him against attempts to manipulation, but I doubt that is the reason for his supposed reluctance to initiate 'The Hunger Games': A political weapon that would cement his legacy, and ensure his name would be heralded throughout Panem for eternity. No, I believe his 'distraction' hails from masculine pride: As the leader of Panem, he probably doesn't want to admit that the one thing that could make him great wasn't even his idea.

"Corrine…"

Azure meets grey as he looks up, my face schooled into an expression of polite indifference while my blood sears my veins. Various macabre scenarios run through my head, each more elaborate than the previous, of a Panem where I, and my notions, can flourish. Unencumbered by the like of Holden DeMontford and their fragile egos. Before replying, I take a calming breath and fold my arms across my chest.

"Yes Holden?"

I'm impressed that my voice sounds genuinely curious, rather than spitting his name out as if it were profanity. His eyes return to the stack of research that I had collated, my jaw clenches as I imagine how he is moments away from discarding all of it and somehow twisting my creation into something he can call his own. Masquerading the child born of my mind, as his own means of exercising control over the Districts. As he continues to flick through the manila folder that housed my projected targets of economic growth after the implementation of the games.

"This, this is phenomenal… You've accounted for everything. No one will be able to doubt your genius after this Corrine, how long have you been working on this? The idea of marketing the Games, makes me consider how we can 'market' the tributes. Oh, I like that: The tributes. What demographic will the tributes come from? How will they be selected? I like the idea of children paying for the parents' actions, in blood. They will be 'offered' in tribute… The arena? Oh there's so much to take in. You've done it all…"

I began to tune out of his awed rambling. Like the cat that got the cream, I suppress a triumphant smirk marring my features: My earlier worries cease to exist and I genuinely smile at DeMontford. Although I may be the more intelligent of us both, he possesses an undeniable charisma that would be pivotal in the manifestation of the 'Hunger Games' and now that it appears he is on-board. Well, now there is no limit to the suffering we can inflict on the Districts. As his rambling continues I pick up on random words such as 'Parade' and 'Televised interviews' as well as media training and bringing in a 'host' for the games. Relief bleeds through my system, although I conceded that 'public relations' were a necessary element in establishing the games: It was not something I particularly had the patience for.

"Holden, while all of your proposals are definitely worth pursuit. I think that we're both aware that you are far more suited to deal with the more 'public' element of proceeding. I'm more than willing to deal with the pragmatic issues such as development and refurbishing the Battle Tower to house the tributes and provide training facilities."

DeMontford nods along in accordance of my admission. It is logical to exploit his Presidential status to promote the games, while my expertise would be best suited in creating elaborate traps and developing 'mutts' that would ensure and prolong the misery of the Districts; he leans back before pulling out a folder and scanning through the contents. Rather than redirecting the momentum of our conversation, I press on.

"As you may have seen, I've extensively documented the requirement for various roles we need to establish: District Liaison Officers, to escort the tributes to the Capitol and ensure they attend all necessary appointments throughout their stay. Trainers to ensure they have some semblance to combat training, after all we're selling this as a form of entertainment to the Capitol…I believe you mentioned a 'Host' or master of ceremonies: A valid point, we could exploit them as an advocate of the games who will interview necessary parties and such."

I smile encouragingly at DeMontford, the more that I push this as a way of benefitting the Capitol; this is no longer an errant thought of mine, but stepping closer to its imminent realization. I can almost taste the satisfaction I will feel the first time I witness one District's representative murder another's, or as someone loses their life to one of my perverse 'traps'. His grey eyes reflect my own emotional state. A pregnant pause pervades the atmosphere as we both reflect on the momentous changes about to rock Panem to its very core.

"Now then, you will obviously become the 'Head Gamemaker'; I admit myself enamoured with your use of that phrase. You will be responsible for all of the 'pragmatic' elements of the Games, and I shall deal with the 'public' aspect. Now that would mean you would need to ensure the refurbishment of the Battle Tower, find a suitable location to build the arena as well as building the arena. Obviously, all of our, as in the Capitol's, will be available and the budget is negotiable… I also think that it would be prudent for you to assemble a group of Gamemakers to assist you; although all creative decisions will be run via you. This is your masterpiece after all."

I simply nod my head in acceptance. Pride permeated my being, and I felt a foreign warmth blossom in my chest. 'Head Gamemaker', a position that in time would be held in a position of the highest esteem. Before he had even finished speaking, I had been to catalogue a number of my CapiCorp colleagues who would excel in the role of 'Gamemaker' as well as the various mutations and Geo-Constructive technology I could use throughout the games.

"If I'm focussing on the development of the arena and training programmes, then you're willing to finalise the more 'ostentatious' elements?"

Holden nods his head in accordance with my question, for the last few minutes he had been continuously writing in a notepad that seemingly appeared from nowhere. He simply nodded his head before he continued to write something down, DeMontford then picked up another file and may have been cross referencing something. His neutral expression never wavered, while he continued to pursue the various files laid out before him. I pulled my CapiTab from my satchel and fashioned the rough draft of an e-mail for the selected colleagues I had catalogued earlier. As the e-mail is sent informing the chosen few that I would notify them when to meet me in my CapiCorp office to discuss something of 'urgent importance'.

"Corrine, it may be hasty for me to enquire: But how long do you think it would take for you to prepare everything? I have a general idea of how I would announce the games to the Districts, I also have a few people in mind for the various positions you've outlined. And I think I could sort everything on my end out within three weeks."

I would've rolled my eyes, but appearing disrespectful would not benefit me in this moment. His futile attempt to try and assert some form of dominance over me does not go unnoticed; I quickly register the prototypes of mutations available in my laboratories and the Geo-Constructive technologies that have been recently developed.

"I commend you on your capabilities, I work quickly but I doubt that I'll be completed within three weeks. I have a location in mind, and the technology available to construct the arena but combining this with the necessary refurbishments to the Battle Tower and the fact we have to devise a training programme. It's a lot of work, but I have faith that I can have this finished in six weeks. In fact I guarantee that within six weeks, everything on my end will be complete."

I could almost see his approval, he held out his hand which I shook, I could hear the vague grumbles of DeMontford attempting to start a conversation but I wave my hand to shut his monologue. I have far more pressing matters to be dealing with, such as ensuring that I avoid embarrassment by meeting the deadline I've set myself: My thoughts run wild, picturing faceless tributes been torn to pieces by the monstrosities I have the capabilities to create.

"Corinne, are you listening? Although the conversation of the games has been rather illuminating, for want of a better word. I'd been thinking if you'd like to—"

"Although your company has been more than pleasant Holden, I need to leave. I have a lot of things I need to do. If you require contacting me with anything regarding the games, do not hesitate to contact me. As for now, good day"

Before he has the chance to reply, I am out of the door. Contacting my trusted assistant, Selena Crane, informing her to bring together me all of the files I had labelled XYZ: The very files I had assembled for the blessed day when, what is now known as 'The Hunger Games', would come to pass. Within minutes of exiting the mansion our President calls home, I had already contacted a number of Geo-Contractors and selected the location to be used for the arena: Some women rise to the top by marrying a man of worth. But Corrine Serpentia Snow would rise to the top of the Capitol's proverbial ladder by her own merit. I was destined for a role in history, and my contribution to 'The Hunger Games' was vital in embracing this role

* * *

_**I thought I'd put out t**__**his second prologue of sorts to show how things are coming together as we inch closer to the games. **_

_**I'm still looking forward to the wonderful tributes you may want to submit- PM me for the form. I've worked on some Capitol chapters so I can continue to post while I get my tributes :) So, what would we like to see happen next?**_

_**Review: What do we think of the relationship between the President and his newly appointed Head Gamemaker? Any ideas what may happen between these two 'master minds'?**_

**Here is the Tribute List and I will update as reservations and submissions are received (form on my profile) :**

**_The Tributes: Lest We Forget_**

**District One - Luxury Items**

**Male: Dorian Wilde, 15 - CluelessWriter23**

**Female: Cali Topaz, 17- crossroadsphan**

**District Two - Masonry**

**Male: Cicero Bastille, 18- david12341**

**Female: Ophelia Rimbaud, 16 - vandenbergs**

**District Three - Scientific Research/Development**

**Male: Reserved- Red Sting**

**Female: Giga Sloane, 13- CluelessWriter23**

**District Four - Fishing/Shipping**

**Male: Cassian Costa, 18- vandenburgs**

**Female:**

**District Five - Power/Engineering**

**Male: Reserved- DragonoftheStars1429**

**Female: **

**District Six- Medicine**

**Male: Kieran Rigel,17- Kay of Arda**

**Female: Virginia 'Jyn' Barden, 18 - david12341**

**District Seven - Lumber**

**Male:**

**Female: Shirley Bertram,14 - vandenbergs**

**District Eight - Textiles**

**Male:**

**Female: Reserved- DragonoftheStars1429**

**District Nine - Grain/Milling**

**Male: Buddy Vandijk, 17- Zacksteel**

**Female:**

**District Ten - Livestock**

**Male: Rowan Mason, 18- YJ Harper Row**

**Female: Anna Broyles, 15- JStar14H**

**District Eleven - Agriculture**

**Male:**

**Female: Reserved- DragonoftheStars1429**

**District Twelve - Coal Mining**

**Male: **

**Female: Taliyah Naph, 15 - david12341**


	3. Chapter Two: An Announcement is Made

**Chapter Two: An Announcement Is Made.**

**Holden DeMontford, President of Panem**

In my hand I held the document that would change the political landscape of Panem forevermore. For years a power struggle reined the land, and the Districts fought for their 'freedom'. They fought in vain, and now their crimes will come to light: To contest the supremacy of the Capitol. An unforgivable offence, an offence I have deemed treason. Their punishment outlined in the aptly named 'Treaty of Treason', The Hunger Games will haunt the Districts.

Corrine and I, we've manufactured a political weapon. A weapon more effective than anything exploited during 'The Dark Days'. This is our, as the Capitol's, insurance policy. A preventative measure, ensuring that history will never repeat itself: The Hunger Games have one purpose. A purpose I, and my most trusted counsel, believe it will fulfil. Crushing the fragile remnants of hope the Districts so desperately cling to, while fertilizing the seeds of grief, pain and sorrow that will blossom throughout Panem.

Today is a blessed day for the Capitol. No, it is 'the' Blessed Day. For the time has arrived, a time where the Hunger Games will no longer be contained to clandestine meetings and rushed conversations. They are coming. After today, they will no longer be hidden in the shadows. They will be brought into the spotlight, where they belong: They will mark the beginning of a new age in Panem. Where the Districts will atone for the sins of their forefathers in the most 'appropriate' way possible.

The velvet folder clasped in my hands appears to vibrate in my hand, as though the contents are anticipating the moment that they are laid out for the whole of Panem to see. I caress the rigid spine of the folder with my forefinger, my mind whirling with the numerous developments I'd witnessed in preparation for today: The excitement glistening in Corrine's cerulean eyes as she gave me a tour of her 'Command Centre'. The unadulterated bliss that enveloped her as we witnessed the destruction the mutations she had manufactured in preparation for the Games. The tinkling soprano of her laugh as Avoxes were torn to pieces by the 'mutts'.

Six weeks. In only six weeks, we had nurtured the Hunger Games from an idea into the imminent doom it represents for the Districts. The Arena's construction had reached completion only days ago, the 'Tribute Tower' was fully refurbished and the finest Head Hunters in the Capitol were able to assemble a team of 'Escorts' and interim 'Mentors'. Corrine had assembled a rigid training regime for when the tributes arrived in the Capitol; and I was concluding negotiations with an assortment of media and public relation servicemen to assemble an itinerary concerning the 'public showcasing' of tributes prior to entering the Arena.

Colour me astounded, but I thought this was an impossible feat. But Corrine and I, we have done it. We're now ready to make the announcement that will shake Panem to its very core. In one month from today, the very day that will mark the third month since the Capitol emerged victorious from the War, the Hunger Games will begin. And it all begins tonight.

* * *

_**Hunger Games: Questions Answered**_

_**-a sit down meeting with newly appointed 'HEAD GAMEMAKER', Corrine Snow**_

_**-Sofia Cortez**_

_Sat in one of the spacious laboratories of CapiCorp, opposite one of the most powerful women in Panem. Biochemical engineer, turned mastermind of a social revolution. She's beautiful, she's intelligent and she is here to answer the questions I've compiled since President Holden DeMontford's flawless address only days ago._

**So, Corrine. The President himself has declared that you are true genius behind the Hunger Games. What do you have to say to that?**

_Well credit is given where credit is due Ms. Cortez, the concept was something I'd been thinking of for a while. But it was a truly collaborative process between the President and myself, we both have roles to fill. I know very little about how to brand the concept as 'entertainment'; rather I have been working on developing suitable mutations, and an Arena where the tributes will compete. I feel it necessary to reassure anyone who may be reading this transcript: The training provided has been tailored to help the tributes assimilate into whichever environment the Arena will simulate._

**Is there anything you can tell us about the Arena? What the Capitol could be expected to see?**

_No Comment. I'm not at liberties to discuss the Arena at all. It's confidential and I wouldn't want to ruin it for the viewers. I can, however, say that I have been working alongside the finest scientist to ensure that everything is of undeniable quality and will enrich the viewing experience for all._

_Corrine then requested a few moments to take a call, afterwards she said she would need to head to the laboratories for some last minute checks and such. She used a lot of scientific terminology, but she has agreed to answer two more questions._

**So how will the tributes be selected? And have we, as the Capitol, taken any precautions to ensure that everyone in the designated demographic is available for selection? And how do you intend to stop identity theft?**

_It is a very simple process. Using the latest census and the post-war registry: A list of names has been compiled and there will be numerous Peacekeepers going to take a blood sample and imputing it with the corresponding name to a database I've developed. As for the selection, or 'Reaping' as the President has taken to calling it, is a very simple process: All the names of the male tributes in one bowl, the females in another: The D.L.O (District Liaison Officer) will choose the names from the bowls._

**It truly is simple. So my final question: President DeMontford made numerous allusions to the Capitol's involvement in the Hunger Games. Could you elaborate?**

_Yes, the Capitol will be able to sponsor tributes who they feel would make suitable Victors. It is as simple as that, that is why Holden decided to have the tributes participate in a Parade, have their skills judged and show their character via interview. Any more information from that aspect of the Games will be addressed in a press release closer to the time._

_Corrine then excused herself, and the interview came to an end. Capitol, keep your eyes open for the expected press releases. And remember: Happy Hunger Games, and May the Odds be ever in your favour._

* * *

**And so it is done, the Hunger Games have been announced. I have tidbits written for my Capitol storyline, and I'm receiving Tributes but only 5 slots are taken so if you're reading: Please submit :) **

**Thanks to my wonderful reviewers, it's great to know that people are enjoying what I'm doing and I'm really hoping you continue to enjoy what I have planned. **

**Next chapter: We will meet some Escorts and the interim Mentors, and how they are recruited.**

**Question: What do we think of having small 'Articles' by Ms Cortez to explain things throughout the story. I.E) Sponsorship when the time comes? Also, who do we think should do the interviews? (A descedent of Flickerman, or some random Capitolite one of you can come up with) **

**Here is the Tribute List and I will update as reservations and submissions are received:**

**_The Tributes: Lest We Forget_**

**District One - Luxury Items**

**Male: Dorian Wilde, 15 - CluelessWriter23**

**Female: Cali Topaz, 17- crossroadsphan**

**District Two - Masonry**

**Male: Cicero Bastille, 18- david12341**

**Female: Ophelia Rimbaud, 16 - vandenbergs**

**District Three - Scientific Research/Development**

**Male: Reserved- Red Sting**

**Female: Giga Sloane, 13- CluelessWriter23**

**District Four - Fishing/Shipping**

**Male: Cassian Costa, 18- vandenburgs**

**Female:**

**District Five - Power/Engineering**

**Male: Reserved- DragonoftheStars1429**

**Female: **

**District Six- Medicine**

**Male: Kieran Rigel,17- Kay of Arda**

**Female: Virginia 'Jyn' Barden, 18 - david12341**

**District Seven - Lumber**

**Male:**

**Female: Shirley Bertram,14 - vandenbergs**

**District Eight - Textiles**

**Male:**

**Female: Reserved- DragonoftheStars1429**

**District Nine - Grain/Milling**

**Male: Buddy Vandijk, 17- Zacksteel**

**Female:**

**District Ten - Livestock**

**Male: Rowan Mason, 18- YJ Harper Row**

**Female: Anna Broyles, 15- JStar14H**

**District Eleven - Agriculture**

**Male:**

**Female: Reserved- DragonoftheStars1429**

**District Twelve - Coal Mining**

**Male: **

**Female: Taliyah Naph, 15 - david12341**


	4. Chapter Three: Much Ado About

**Good morning, or evening-depending on where you are in the world. This will be the last Capitol chapter for a while, I've attempted to do some 'world building' since these are the First Hunger Games :) **

**I'm also happy to announce that all slots are either filled or reserved- the Tribute List will be posted at the end of the chapter BUT to those with reservations, please get them to me as soon as possible as I need all the Tributes to finalise some of my plans going forward: If I don't hear from you, even if it is just to say 'working on it' within a few days I will open up the relevant slot.**

* * *

**Selena Crane, Assistant to the Head-Gamemaker, Capitol Citizen**

One would think as a woman of science, more accurately experimental science, I would be used to 'explosions'. But nothing could prepare me for the explosion of colour that is assaulting my corneas at this current time. Couple this kaleidoscope of hues with the cacophony of sounds that are seconds away from making my ears bleed, and you would be right to assume that I'd rather be anywhere but here.

I was raised in the Capitol, I worked tirelessly alongside the greatest minds during the 'Dark Days' and witnessed things that would make those with the strongest constitutions lose their stomachs, but nothing could prepare me for what I'm facing right now. Twelve colourful imbeciles that are far too familiar with the body modification surgery office, and have a loathsome habit of speaking with an over-exaggerated intonation in a pale imitation of pre-Panem aristocracy.

Snippets of their conversation are enough to make me want to repeatedly smash my head into the nearest solid surface, and that desire is becoming more and more feverent as the seconds tick by. One would think they had more important matters to discuss than the newest boutique opening, or how 'absolutely gorge' some television personality is: I am terrified that my brain cells are fading to nothingness the longer I am forced to endue this.

"Ladies and gentlemen."

My voice lacks the timbre of command associated with my colleagues such as DeMontford or the cold sensuality of Corrine, but the almost monotonous drawl is enough to silence the sycophants momentarily. They all sit up a little straighter, preening like peacocks and basking in their self-importance. My desire to pull the concealed pistol from my snakeskin purse and decorate the stark white walls of the conference room with their blood is almost overwhelming but I take a calming breath and walking along the tables where they are congregated.

"First of all, congratulations to you all. Following an intensive screening process you twelve have been selected for a very special role in the upcoming festitvites we are calling the Hunger Games. District liasion officers, responsible for escorting those selected in the lottery to the Capitol and acting as ambassadors of our great city, the Capitol. This induction is for you to ask questions and familiarise yourselves with the roles and responsibilities of those in your esteemed positions, although the pamphlets provided should suffice in providing any further informarion you may require."

The rehearsed speech is basically spat out in my mechanical tone devoid of inflection, a 'welcoming' smile fixed to my face that I am sure looks more like a pained grimace. The moment I had deigned them 'special' they had begun tittering like a flock of over-excitable hens and giggling like immature school children. As if these 'people', for lack of a better word, could ever be considered special.

The selction process was similar to the lottery process the eligible District scum would face, twelve names picked out from the applications received: This esteemed role they play is nothing more than that of a glorified babysitter whose sole responsibility is ensuring their 'charges' are brought from the hovels they come home, and thrown into the Arena I had helped design. And still, not one of these brainless idiots have picked up the pamphlet. What makes them 'special' is an inherent ability not to follow instructions given to them plainly, or so it seems.

It baffles me, truly, that these people are so self-important that they believe they are special. If anyone in this room was special, it was myself: My colleague, Corrine Snow, and I were the true ambassador's of revolution. These 'Hunger Games' were born from conversations that began in our shared dormitory at The Academy of Scientific Operations. A means of punishing the ungrateful wretches of the Districts, where talk of rebellion was rife even then, but then the pompous asshole we are calling our 'saviour' and President decided that our weapon should truly become 'Panem et Circenses' and therefore involving these clowns.

I am not too proud to admit that DeMontford's contributions are brilliant. I recognise that his ideas of bringing forth the pageantry element of proceedings is a pragmatic way to benefit the economic and psychological stranglehold we possess over the Districts. Simply, I would appreciate these contributions a lot more if it wasn't I selected to 'debrief' these morons to ensure that the 'Circenses' runs smoothly. As if a pre-meditated gladiatorial death match would ever run smoothly.

My 'charges' for the moment has discarded the resources I'd given them and fallen back into overly loud conversation, incapable of tolerating their idiocy any longer I clear my throat. If they choose to continue fluttering around like frightened hens, then I will give them something to be fearful of.

"LISTEN!"

The mechanical tone is now gone, and my complete disinterest and scorn towards these fools is bleeding into every syllable. The effect is instantaneous, as they all freeze and silence blankets the conference room: I'm now staring into a sea of faces, some looks terrified while others are affronted by what they must assume is a blatant disregard of 'etiquette'.

"Now that we are all listening. I would like, and by that I mean I expect, you to focus- however difficult that may be- on the booklet I have given you. Do it quickly, and quietly for the Capitol's sake. And then, and only then- I will answer any questions you may have. Am I understood?"

I do not have the time or the patience to coddle these imbeciles any longer, I nod indifferently to the murmurs of agreement before taking a seat at the desk and pulling out my portable computer and focussing on something actually worthwhile. Project: MIRAGE

* * *

**Drusilla Drayden, District Liaison Officer, Capitol.**

I am positively fuming, how dare that woman take such a tone with me. Selena Crane, I know her. Well, I know of her but that is enough. Just because she is bosom buddies with that heinous Snow woman, she has the audacity to speak to me with such a pointed tone. She may be one of those 'Science' types with an abundance of intelligence, but it doesn't take a scientist to figure out that brutish woman has no class or respect for social decorum.

Glancing around the room, I note that my peers are perusing the 'pamphlet' that she-wolf handed out earlier. Flicking my chartreuse hair behind my shoulder and sniffing disdainfully I open the leaflet. As I read I realise that I have been allocated District One, as I should be, no one understand luxury more than Drusilla Drayden but as I read further I become a little confused.

'..._following the ceremony wherein the Tributes are selected, the Tributes will be given an allocated time of three minutes in the Justice Building to say their farewells to their loved ones. After this, it is your duty, to ensure the Tributes are escorted to the train by the designated departure time (*Please see Appendix ix for departure times) While in transit to the Capitol, you will be working alongside the District Advisor. This will involve securing potential 'sponsors' for the Tributes you are working with; ensuring that the Tributes have received sufficient training in etiquette by the time the interviews are completed...'_

Sponsorship? District Advisor? One is versed in the ancient languages, but I may as well be reading pig Latin. Sitting up a little straighter, which is a feat in and unto itself due to my immaculate posture, I raise my hand. Even if it is painful to do so, wanting nothing to do that will involve interacting with the raven-haired heathen. Unfortunately, said heathen appears engrossed with whatever she is doing with her computab.

"Hem, hem"

While I simper sweetly, I am more than a little irked. I am Drusilla Drayden for the sake of Panem, this little science twit should know better than to ignore someone of my impeccable breeding. Her eyes remain fixed on the computer/tablet hybrid and I can almost feel myself blush in indignation. I am spared the shame due to the recent melatonin adjustment I had undergone to paint my porcelain skin a pale lemon.

"Selena?"

Her eyes dart to me, and she sneers like a rabid animal as her amber eyes glitter with malevolence. A scathing remark is on the end of my tongue but the words dissipate like smoke in the wind as she raises her manicured hand in the universal gesture of 'shut up'. My pride almost dictates that I should rebuff her silent gesture of dominance but there's a voice in my head that tells me that Selena Crane- despite her blatant disregard for manners- is not an enemy you would like to make lightly.

"That is my name, Ms. Drayden. Although I would prefer to be addressed by my formal title: Executive Assistant to the Head Gamemaker. And that goes for all of you. Now, what is it that I can help you with?"

I could splutter in rage, this overly intelligent she-beast dare talk to me in such a condescending manner. I am simply affronted, glancing at my fellow District Liaison Officers show me that they're all cowards as their eyes remain fixed on the scriptures before them. Her complete dismissal almost stings; I am a Drayden, and as major beneficiaries of the war effort, I am entitled to respect. Especially from a snotty know-it-all like Crane: But I can play nicely like the graceful serpent in the Drayden family crest I will 'tunc mirabuntur me'. Bide my time.

"Sorry to disturb you. After the lottery and such it mentions District Advisors? Could you elaborate on what these are. And then 'securing' Sponsors. I, and I'm sure my wonderful colleagues agree, would like to know a little more about this. Only if you know of course."

As sweet as pie, I shrug innocently and look around at my colleagues who are tittering out their agreement. Shrugging innocently and widening my eyes, I repress the urge to smirk as Crane's lips almost disappear as they thin. She takes a deep breath and attempts a would be smile before shutting off her computab.

"Of course I know. I hold an executive position planning these Games- and I will answer your questions: But only once. So I suggest you all listen, and listen well if that's possible. You will each be assigned a 'partner' of sorts- a prolific member of the government or the military who will effectively mentor the Tributes: Be that strategy for when they're in the Arena, or things to focus on in the three day training period-"

"But, like, why would someone, like, a politician or soldier, want to, like, help the Tribute people like? I mean, like, and who would, like, sponsor. I don't wanna, like, waste my time schmoozing up to,like, rich folks for money. Like, just to help someone from, like, a District?"

Serena looks at the one who dared interrupt her with something akin to shock, and I share the sentiment. The blue haired buffoon may have made a valid point, but every knows that excessive use of the words 'like','huh' or 'sorry' are clearly indicators of poor breeding and a lack of intelligence. The moment of camaraderie between Crane and I passes when she smiles indulgently at the cobalt coloured oaf.

"I am glad you, eventually asked that. Mr. Templesmith. Well you are all bravely undertaking roles where you will be working in close proximity with those affiliated with, and potentially related to, the terrorists who endangered our beloved Capitol."

She almost sounds sincere, but a liar knows a liar when they see them. And I would bet my entire couture collection that Selena Crane is lying through her pearly white teeth, if she thinks we are brave then I was born in a barn. But I am curious to see what she has to say.

"You will receive a compensation of sorts, a commission based on all the sponsorships you secure. And if you conduct remains professional throughout what we are calling 'Games Season' you will receive a 'bonus'. And the Advisors are all playing to win, as if a Tribute from the District you are representing wins. Then you will be rewarded greatly, President DeMontford has assured that"

You could hear a pin drop, while most of us were content to simply pick up a pay check after 23 of the District children are dead: We're all now competing for a grand prize of our own. Excited chatter provides a soundscape as Selena packs her belongings away, a coy smile on her haughty features.

"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour"

* * *

**Crimson, Capitol Enforcer.**

The man strapped to the chair before me is a sorry sight, or would be considered by most, with his body misshapen from hastily repaired broken bones. His pale skin having adopted a waxy sheen, his lips torn from what may have once been a handsome face-nothing but a gaping hole remains. As gory as the sight is, there is something beguiling about it. His teeth, the few remaining are chipped and coated in a sparse layer of dried blood: He is a work of art. But the piece remains incomplete: His eyes, a startling blue, still radiant defiance. They still shine with the last vestiges of hope, like a lit candle.

I am an artist of sorts, a renowned artist in the most secretive sects of Capitol society. Mistress has chosen me to complete this art piece: To extinguish the fire in his eyes and make him 'spill' the secrets he clings to so dearly. It's almost erotic, the meticulous way that Mistress uses language. Every word is chosen deliberately, and the thought of making this man 'spill' is more powerful than any aphrodisiac known to man.

"Good evening Sir, I look forward to working with you."

Stepping into the fluorescent lighting the man looks taken aback. I am sure that I cut a stark figure to his previous 'acquaintances': Burly men with their corded muscles. But I am only a fifteen year old girl, petite with snowy white hair and periwinkle blue eyes. He splutters momentarily, his forehead creasing in confusion and his eyes widening in pity.

Tittering in a girlish manner, I waltz into the room. The harsh white soundproof walls, the mirrored floor. He tries to follow my movements with his eyes, but he is secured to the chair. If I listen closely enough, I can hear his heartbeat stutter and I almost groan in ecstasy: His disbelief at seeing a young girl in the 'Interrogation Pod' is warring with something more basic- his animalistic instinct to flee when cornered by a superior predator.

"Don't be scared. We will make music."

Before he can register my words I lunge forward and thrust the dagger into the soft tissue below his ribcage. The sounds that tears through the silence is inhumane, a guttural scream melding with a fearful sob. Giggling to myself I head over the table where my tools lie, tracing the serrated edge of a knife I bask in the afterglow of slicing through his skin. The first brushstroke on my newest canvas.

I can feel a thrumming in my head, a music that plays only for me: The dance of death, but I refrain from ending this man's pitiful existence too soon. Mistress would be unhappy, and I cannot have an unhappy mistress. Before I fall into the haze of lust and violence I have an objective to complete. Taking up a small dagger I turn to my canvas who is attempting to breathe through the pain. A pointless endeavour.

"Now, all I need to know is everything you know about the Rebels. Do not presume to lie, I will know- and that little love tap I gave you is nothing compared to what I would do to someone who lied to me. We know the rebellion is still alive, in hiding and weakened but we know it's still there- so please, and I am asking ever so nicely, who is still involved in the futile effort?"

He stares into my eyes. Seeing hate, anxiety and still pity; He opens his mouth, or what remains of it, and spits on the floor. The yellow mucus is tinged with droplets of blood and I almost growl: The secretion being contaminated with blood means that this soul is not long for this world. Then I must work quickly, and so we dance.

* * *

I do not know how long I was immersed into the euphoric haze of making art, but my once pristine white dress is now crimson. The blood coating my hands is drying, the colour of rust, and I trace the pattern with my tongue savouring the coppery taste. My art work is complete, his intestines ripped free from their internal prison and used to choke the subject. Urine and faeces cover the floor, framing my masterpiece. Eyes gouged from their sockets, nails ripped from their beds: This is my finest work.

Mistress will be proud. I made him 'spill', I made him spill everywhere. I made him spill to the point that it would be hard to categorise this fresh corpse as even human. But that isn't what will make Mistress the proudest. Mistress will be proud as, before he 'succumbed' to my artistic talents, the subject gave me a name.

* * *

**Andrea Pervelle, Freelance Journalist, Capitol.**

Having been raised in the lap of luxury, it is pretty difficult for something to impress me with its sheer opulence. But that is not the case when it comes to Château de Rêves: The most exclusive restaurant in the Capitol which radiates a sense of luxury that even Capitolites, born and raised, would struggle to imagine.

From the crystal chandeliers which I would bet are made of the finest diamonds mined from District One, to the oak panelled walls and priceless pieces of art displayed sporadically throughout the establishment. It's not every day you are whisked to the finest venue in the Capitol, and more surprisingly at the behest of the President themselves.

Savouring the grapefruit undertones in the chardonnay, and how it contrasts with the sweetness of the maraschino cheery parfait. I could definitely get used to this, and the delicate cadences of Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata', provides the perfect ambience- if only my 'date' was running on time. Glancing at my white gold watch, I note that the President is closing in on being five minutes late.

Of course, as a President you are allowed to be late- I dare not imagine what menial tasks the man is bedevilled with on a daily basis- but another glass of white wine is calling my name, and it would be considered uncouth to entertain the President of Panem while slurring my words. These are the true woes of the modern woman.

It's only a few minutes later, once I have finished the last of my mouth watering dessert when the man of the hour strolls into the restaurant with little to no fanfare. He is accompanied by only two Sergeants of the Peace, wearing the scarlet jumpsuits that set them apart from their delegates in the armed forces who don white uniforms. But my eyes are drawn to President Holden DeMontford.

He deserves a more than appreciative glance, with his navy suit tailored to perfection: Highlighting his trim waist and broad shoulders. I have never been one to be fooled by a pretty face but the President is a sight to behold, his classically handsome features unmarred by the elaborate cosmetic enhancements that are sweeping the Capitol. Green eyes, olive toned skin and angular features offset by his chiselled jaw. A handsome man, but one doesn't become the President of a Nation like Panem by being blessed in the genetics department.

"Ah Miss Pervelle. I apologise for my tardiness, I have had an incredibly strenuous morning. How are you?"

He gestures to waiter to bring us a drink as his smooth baritone caresses every word. I would roll my eyes, but I am not foolish enough to antagonise someone in his position: It is evident that he is charming as well as handsome, a lethal combination when it comes to politics. I arrange my features into a mask of polite curiosity, being more than familiar with men who use honeyed words to further their agenda.

"I am wonderful sir, although you need not apologise. I understand that a man in your position has many responsibilities- some, inevitably, that you need to get back to. So let us not waste time with meaningless pleasantries, let us drink our wine and you can tell me what you want?"

I realise that I may sound presumptuous, but that second glass of wine has loosened my tongue more than I had anticipated. But the President smiles broadly, his brow furrows for only a second before he chuckles and leans back into his chair: Relaxed posture, and deliberately showing me his palms. I was right, the man wants something.

"I come with a proposition. A proposition that I believe you are uniquely qualified for."

The enigmatic statement catches my attention, smiling pleasantly I play with the stem of my crystal glass. Watching him as he places his hands together in his lap, but he is watching me too.

"So this is a business meeting. If that's the case, what is this proposition? And please enlighten me as to how I am uniquely qualified."

I am a journalist of sorts, often interviewing famed Capitolites for CEN: But I could list another five journalists who are more experienced and have a much larger fan base than my own. My own fiancée, Augustus Flickerman, has recently hosted the CAFTA's to critical acclaim.

"I'll keep it brief. You've heard of the Hunger Games, and I was hoping you'd be the Mistress of Ceremonies. We considered Gus, but you have that special something I'm looking for: You are a woman of many talents. Be it your degree in Psychology, your published papers on 'Capitol and District Relations'. You're a relative newcomer to the entertainment scene, and these Games I tell you- they're a tradition in the making, and we want them hosted by someone 'fresh'"

He was laying on the charm a little thick, but he had researched me fully. It was alluring really, I was a newcomer to the entertainment scene and these Hunger Games would catapult me into a level of stardom I'd only dreamed about. I couldn't say that for certain, but something just told me that accepting this opportunity would change my life forever. I took another of my wine before smiling.

"I'm interested. So tell me more of what this will entail?"

President DeMontford smiles so brightly, his teeth glittering in the ambient lighting. He almost looks relieved, and that does wonders for my ego. As he opens his mouth to tell me more about becoming the Mistress of Ceremonies, I signal the waiter to bring a bottle. I feel like I deserve it after all, it's not everyday you're personally plucked from obscurity by the President and handed an opportunity that will change your life.

* * *

**NEXT CHAPTER WE MEET 3 OF OUR WONDERFUL TRIBUTES:**

**Cicero Bastille, Cali Topaz and Cassian Costa- I am so excited for you to meet the wonderful Tributes people have submitted :)**

**So, tell me what you think in regards to how I'm setting up the Games- Mentors/Escorts/MC etc? Any particular POV you enjoyed?**

**Feel free to make up an Escort or a Mentor and send them to me- Mentors can be military figures or politicians. Just a name, brief description, tiny bit of personality (can just be a few words) and a bit of backstory :) Saves me having make them all up :D**

**What did we think of Crimson? Who is her Mistress? And what was the name she discovered?**

**_The Tributes: Lest We Forget_**

**District One - Luxury Items**

**Male: **Dorian Wilde, 16 - CluelessWriter23

**Female: **Cali Topaz, 17- crossroadsphan

**District Two - Masonry**

**Male: **Cicero Bastille, 18- david12341

**Female: **Ophelia Rimbaud, 16 - vandenbergs

**District Three - Scientific Research/Development**

**Male: **Open to submissions

**Female: **Giga Sloane, 13- CluelessWriter23

**District Four - Fishing/Shipping**

**Male: **Cassian Costa, 18- vandenburgs

**Female: **Ona Salinger, 17- petrificustotaloos

**District Five - Power/Engineering**

**Male: **Watt Helyre, 15- DragonoftheStars1429

**Female: **Ida Marie Potter, 15- A Proud Bibliophile

**District Six- Medicine**

**Male: **Kieran Rigel,17- Kay of Arda

**Female: **Virginia 'Jyn' Barden, 18 - david12341

**District Seven - Lumber**

**Male: **Quentin Somerset, 13 -petrificustotaloos

**Female: **Shirley Bertram,14 - vandenbergs

**District Eight - Textiles**

**Male: **Ringo Marconi, 14- 20

**Female: **Cyrene Alithor, 18- DragonoftheStars1429

**District Nine - Grain/Milling**

**Male: **Buddy Vandijk, 17- Zacksteel

**Female: **Charity Greene,16- foxfox12

**District Ten - Livestock**

**Male: **Rowan Mason, 18- YJ Harper Row

**Female: **Anna Broyles, 15- JStar14H

**District Eleven - Agriculture**

**Male: **Open to submissions

**Female: **Reserved- DragonoftheStars1429

**District Twelve - Coal Mining**

**Male: **Aerion Fyre, 18 - Kay of Arda

**Female: **Taliyah Naph, 15 - david12341


	5. Chapter Four: War and Parties

**Hey, it's been a while. But I have been productive during that time. A lot of planning now I have a full Tribute List, and I have written future sections but see the A/N below to get an update on my updating schedule. And here it is: My first foray into writing the weird and wonderful characters submitted by you guys :)**

* * *

**Cicero Bastille, 18, District Two**

The Hunger Games, as they've been christened by Presient DeMontford have caused chaos throughout Panem. I cannot find it within myself to sympathise with these outcries of 'cruelty', or those so eager to brand the Capitol as 'monsters'. We're all mosters, these people bit the hand that has fed them since Panem came to be and are now have the audacity to cry out that the punishment handed down is 'unfair'.

Such sentiments are not whispered often in my home District, Two provided soldiers to fight on the behalf of the Capitol- and these Hunger Games are a prime opportunity for us to continue the plight of enforcing the Capitol's undisputed sovereignty. My father died during the 'Dark Days' stolen from our family by scum, the very same scum who are now terrified of the punishment they now face.

Unfortunately, it seems that this unease has somehow filtered into the fortress that District Two became known as during the war. Surprisingly, it has taken root in the Bastille household, a household who has never attempted to disguise their loyalist ideologies. Since the loss of our patriarch, Mother has burrowed away into her bedroom- her only company being the liquor that ushers her away from reality on a daily basis; Justinian and Caesar's presence is scarce in the household, working unsociable hours in the mines. It leaves Lucius and I alone, fending for ourselves in a sense; and my stomach clenches as I realised that I have failed in my duties as a big brother, and a surrogate father.

Lucius Bastille, youngest son of Demetri Bastille, is spouting District propaganda. It's an alarming feeling, the rage blossoming in my chest as I try to school my features into parental disapproval. My father would never have tolerated this, and for a moment I feel shame carving a cavity into my being: I should have been more prudent in ensuring Lucius understood the importance of being a true loyalist.

Being the youngest, I have probably sheltered the boy too much, trying to preserve his 'innocence' but that was a definite oversight on my behalf. Shame envelopes me as I imagine the bitter disappointment my father would inevitably feel at one of his progeny questioning the Capitol. Why? Such a simple word, but it is much more than a request for explanation: It undermines the authority of the benevolent Capitol.

It paints Lucius as a coward, and I cannot allow this to continue: Bastille men are steadfast in their loyalist stance, Polonius Rimbaud recounted how our father had died proudly as he fought for the Capitol cause. Lucius' trepidation is a stain on our father's honour, and it is my responsibility to cleanse Lucius of this poorly misinformed propaganda he should learn to ignore.

"Luc, you're young. But you cannot go around listening to these imbeciles touting bullshit. You're my brother and I want the best for you, and I don't want to scare you: But listening to those people could result in some unpleasant consequences. I mean, Peacekeepers are here to keep the peace and even being a born and bred Bastille cannot protect you if you're found spouting this anti-Capitol propaganda. I cannot protect you."

His choclate brown eyes, similarly coloured to my own become glassy. His brow furrows, and for a moment I feel the bitter sting of regret at having to open his eyes to the real world. Where naïve sympathy for the Rebels can have much more devastating effects than a scolding from your older brother. With a stern expression I notice his furrowed brow, confusion staining his pallor. He looks so helpless, and it is my duty to alleviate this bewilderment on his behalf; taking his small hand in my own I smile in a way that I hope reads as reassuring.

"The Hunger Games are a punishment bro, I won't dispute that. But they are necessary, do you not remember the stories of the war? Terrorism, child soldiers- The 'Rebels' were, no are, nothing but arrogant bastards. They need this punishment: The scum are nothing more than rabid animals who dared bite the hand that fed them."

Lucius nods mechanically, everyone heard the stories: Frequent terrorist attacks in the outlier Districts, how they forced naïve children onto the front line to fight for a cause they did not even understand. It's painful to know that humanity could degenerate in such a way, I shake my head in disgust before handing Lucius a glass of water. Comprehension has seen a little colour return to his cheeks, he takes a sip of the water before teasing his lower lip with his teeth.

"I understand. I just don't get why Districts like One and Two have to compete. We fought for the Capitol, Pa died for them- anyone who has ever said anything remotely treasonous is either whipped to within an inch of their life or straight up killed Cic. Why do we have to send two 'Tributes'?"

I nod along with his observations, they are correct to a degree. While I may not be privy to any statistics about crime rates across Panem, I am certain that any incident pertaining to treason or conspiracy to commit treason- District Two would have the lowest amount, if any, of cases reported. But why we, as a prolific Capitol friendly District, are expected to participate is a little more complex even if I know it is a necessity.

"Do you remember what would happen if any of us misbehaved when Father was around?"

Lucius may have been young before father left home to aid the Capitol during the war effort, but I doubt he is unaware of father's means of punishing those who behaved in a manner not befitting the Bastille name. The look of understanding coupled with fear as he begins to play with a loose thread on his shirt tell me he knows exactly what I am talking about, even if he never experienced it. Demetri Bastille and his methods of discipline are notorious, and not easily forgotten.

"T-the belt."

"And did any of us do it again? And do you think that just because father may have favoured a specific child that he would never have used the belt on them?"

There's a moment before Lucius meets my eyes with his own for a moment, before they trail back to the wooden table top. He traces nonsensical patterns onto the surface, pointedly avoiding answering the question. My patience lasts for a few moments before I slam my palm against the table: The burst of sound shattering the silence that had settled over the dining room. Lucius' tawny orbs widen as he looks up, he shakes his head: No. I almost feel shame over having to demolish his childish perception of the world: My words a crimson stain on the white of his innocence. But it is what father would want, a son who was aware of why the Capitol had to do this.

"These Hunger Games are the Capitol's belt, don't you see that? And just think of those lucky ones, chosen to represent the District: Go to the Capitol itself. Thank them for what they have done, given the responsibility of swinging the belt on behalf of the Capitol. They'll be our heroes, and they will have our respect."

Lucius initially looks weary, but I see him understand my passion. The importance of ensuring these Hunger Games achieve their purpose and kick the outlier scum to the curb where they belong. Sacrifices are sometimes inevitable: My father sacrificed himself for the greater good, and those lucky enough to be chosen as Tribute should be honoured to have the means of sacrificing themselves to further the Capitol's cause.

"But we, or they, people would have to kill others?"

It would be frustrating, having to explain this to my brother: But it is my solemn duty to act as my father would if he were here, so I simply shrug and tell my younger brother to fetch his coat. Maybe words alone are not enough to open his eyes.

* * *

I feel Lucius follow as I meander through a path I have walked more times than I care to admit. His childish mutterings ignored as we breach the boundaries of the town, emerging into Valhalla. The cemetery wherein those who have fought with honour, in aid of the Capitol, are laid to rest when they depart the Earthly plane. The white marble tombstones glittering in the sunlight, dotted along the expansive meadow with military precision.

I am not one to ponder my own death, but when I succumb to the inevitable- I pray that I have earned the right to be buried here. I hear Lucius' awed exclamation as he sees the web of ivory graves before him; I cannot help but smile as I recall the first time I was brought here by Polonius after being told our father had passed on. Enchanted by the very feeling of power that seems to emanate from the gravesites.

"Woah, why have your brought me here, Cic? I mean it's... beautiful, but I'm a little lost."

I simply gesture for him to follow as I navigate through the maze of graves, words fail me. I am often struck speechless when I wander through Valhalla imagining the honourable plights of those ensconced within the Earth I am treading: But I also feel a growing sense of guilt as we near our destination. Lucius' weakness, questioning the Capitol agenda almost feels sacrilegious within the boundaries of Valhalla.

But Lucius must learn to walk a path of honour, and staunch loyalty like our father before us. And my attempts at simple explanation have failed, so bringing him here- to the place where I feel closest to Father: Maybe that will help rid him of this plague of sympathising with the outliers. Time stops for a moment as we reach our destination before I drop to my knees before the marble tombstone, fingers tracing the elegant filigree of the seal of the Capitol nestled in the upper corner of the burial site.

Turning to Lucius, I see his eyes are fixed on the marble monument: Eyes shifting along the epitaph. I see a single tear fall from his eyes before he takes a shuddering breath and pulls himself to his full height. I imagine how he must feel now, looking down at the ground where our Father is laid to rest: The pride, the conviction to uphold his beliefs. I feel closer to my brother in this instant than I have in a long time, solidarity born from our shared pride as we stare down at the memorial.

_Here Lies Demetri Bastille,_

_Mourned by a wife and three sons._

_May his honour be a thing of legend, his sacrifices never forgotten_

_Their glory shall not be blotted out_

_Numquam obliviscere, commemora semper_

"Never forget, always remember. That's what the Latin means Lucius, our Father believed in the Capitol: He fought for them, bled for them and ultimately died for them. In a way, these Hunger Games are a legacy of our Father's: His loyalty meant he would've supported these games. Would we dare share him by ignoring his legacy?"

Lucius looks bewildered for a moment, I understand why. I've spent many hours tormenting myself with what my father would think about everything I have done, would he be proud of the man I am becoming? Would he have praised my loyalty and ambition to follow him into the Peacekeeper Corps. Polonius tells me he would have, but sometimes doubts plague me like dishonesty and shame plague the outlier citizens.

"Lord Cic, it almost sounds like you want your name to be called at that ceremony thing."

Lucius chuckles to himself, words shaped by a joking lilt. But his throwaway attempt at humour gives me pause. It has always been my greatest desire to make my father proud, to emulate his ideologies and follow in his footsteps. To do the bidding of the Capitol, and I was too short sighted to see that these Hunger Games are a platform to do exactly that.

An opportunity wherein I can make an example of those who dare to wear their treasonous affiliations as a badge of false honour. To cut them down as the almighty Capitol have squashed down their futile attempt at revolution. And to do it for all to see, where every Rebel and their affiliates can witness as a true loyalist cuts down their progeny who are probably already infected with their treason.

It's invigorating. Every set of eyes in Panem fixed on me: The Champion of the Capitol, becoming the physical embodiment of their virtues. A precautionary tale to anyone who would ever question the Capitol's supremacy again.

"Cic? You okay? You're looking a little flushed."

I can tell he is concerned, his small hand comes to rest on my broad shoulder and I throw my arm across his shoulder. Something akin to euphoria is flooding through my veins, and I'm surprised that Lucius cannot feel the conviction radiating from my body, a fire has been lit in my stomach and I give my younger brother a grin of unfiltered joy.

"I've never been better, Lu."

* * *

I have not shared my plans with any of my family, as of yet. Lucius would worry needlessly, his spine still not forged with the iron of Bastille men; and the others, they'd use their false 'concern' for my welfare as a way to try and drag me from the spotlight that I'm becoming more and more convinced I am destined to step into. As harsh as it sounds, their thoughts do not matter to me- maybe Lucius' could, but I need to lead by example and show him what it means to be a man.

Since my father was unjustly snatched from us by rebellious zealots, there is one man whose thoughts matter to me. In those instances wherein I would want someone's opinion who I know would mirror my father's steadfast values, I find myself standing at the door to the Rimbaud townhouse. The elaborate Gryphon shaped knocker a familiar weight in my hand.

Moments later the door opens, and I am greeted by the pleasant sight of Ophelia Rimbaud. Her ebony hair pulled into an elegant chignon and her emerald eyes glimmer in recognition before trailing the length of my body. I wait for a raspberry blush to mar her milky skin, but the budding socialite is unaffected by my presence: Her manicured eyebrow rises in challenge.

"Good evening, Miss Ophelia."

I smile gently, projecting every ounce of charisma I know myself to possess. The very same charm that has made many young women fall into my bed; but the Rimbaud girl is a mystery. I see it as a game, to see if anything I can do can rumble the 'unflappable' beauty. Her haughty features remain fixed in an expression of polite disinterest, mocking my inability to invoke a more impassioned reaction from the girl.

"And what is it I can do for you, Mr. Cicero?"

The melodious tone is one I associate with the well-bred women of District Two. But the subtle snarky tone amuses me, Ophelia is one of the few women of her standing I respect. While she may have a fondness for the ostentatious aspects of being a socialite; the intelligent glimmer in her viridian eyes and the toned physique from running Peacekeeper drills at her father's behest make her a beguiling mystery for any young hot blooded man. As she folds her arms, I clear my throat and nod my head.

"I am here to see Sergeant Rimbaud if he is available?"

The overly formal camaraderie is standard as Ophelia nods distractedly, unsurprised by the purpose of my visit as she has answered the door on more than one occasion when I have come to seek an audience with the man, who has become a pseudo-father in my owns absence.

"He's in the parlour, I doubt he'd turn you away but courtesy dictates I check if he is 'receiving visitors', you can wait here."

She turns on her heel and leaves me standing in the entrance hall, as she climbs the ornate staircase I can't help but admire her shapely carves and the poise in which she carries herself. She might look like a porcelain doll but I pity any man who dares treat her like one, beneath the dainty façade their is an iron will and sharp wit that is more devastating than any blade.

"If I catch you staring at my ass again Cicero, I will not hesitate in separating you from Little Cicero. As slowly and as painfully as I can make the process"

The threat is delivered in a simpering manner, but I quickly avert my gaze to the baroque style painting: Threats from a Rimbaud are not to be taken lightly, and I do not doubt her capabilities in following through with any threat she makes. I smirk to myself as I imagine what life could be like if I were not destined to enter the Hunger Games, or her the elite social circles of Two: She'd make a fine wife, and if not that: A fine comrade if we joined the Peacekeeper Corps.

"Bastille, my father will see you now."

* * *

**Cali Topaz, 17, District One**

The finest couture that District One has to offer, and none of it is good enough. The ruby coloured silk is the wrong shade, and the cerulean taffeta is possibly the most horrific garment I've had the misfortune to see. Oh, if the outliers could see us now: They'd laugh. District One is meant to embody sophistication, and I am seconds away from taking scissors to these expensive excuses for ball gowns.

Terracotta? What fool would deign to couple terracotta with my skin tone. Calming breaths, it is a truth universally acknowledged that you cannot buy class or teach it- it is something you're born with, and whichever 'stylist' thought these were suitable for the most important evening in the District's social calendar: They were obviously born with no taste and should genuinely consider alternative employment.

Tonight must be perfect, no ifs or buts about it. I will be the proverbial Belle of the Ball, I don't doubt that for a second. But it seems that I'm going to have to send one of the housekeepers to collect a gown from the Topaz Vault: They're usually saved for elaborate affairs when visiting the Capitol, but since the futile 'War Effort' travel between the Capitol and Districts has ceased. Definitely inconvenient, and time consuming. Deep breaths, I am Cali Topaz and there is nothing I cannot do.

"Darling, I've brought you a little something to wear tonight."

Cinder Topaz waltzes into the room, followed by her personal assistant who is struggling with a garment box. It's as though my silent prayers have been answered. My Mother, political mastermind, and thankfully a woman of taste; she is so attuned to my own preferences that I do not doubt for a moment that I won't be the centre of attention at the Gala. I press a quick kiss to her soft cheek, before clapping my hands together excitedly.

"Show me, show me."

My mother laughs daintily, adjusting her midnight satin skirt as she gestures for her nameless assistant, who draws the garment from the box. The maroon satin and the glass beading is a masterpiece: My pale skin and dark hair will looks resplendent against the luxurious fabric. My mother's eyes, cornflower blue and so similar to my own, glimmer in triumph. Tonight the Topaz family goes to war, and these elaborate fashions are our armour.

"I shall leave you to get ready now, sweetheart, don't overdo it with the accessories. You would not want to take this gown- imported directly from the Capitol, may I add- and make it look tacky. Leave over accessorising to the Belfleur's and the like. Toodles."

I nod, shivering in disgust at the mere idea of somehow being compared to the Belfleur's: They're called 'New Money', which everyone knows is a synonym for dirty money. I bark out orders for the maids to come and tidy my dressing room and these 'gowns', for want of a better word, are couriered back to whichever tasteless fashion house saw fit to send them to the Topaz Estate.

"Oh, Maid. I'm sorry I've forgotten your name again. Once you've returned the garment, I need you to go and collect Tobin and Gracie Algarde and bring them here. Explain it is of utmost importance. And also send one of the other staff to draw me a bath- patchouli and sandalwood for tonight I think: Cali is feeling 'spicy'"

The young blonde nods her head, hastily jotting down the requests I make. She curtsies deeply, rather impressive for one not raised in high society and leaves almost soundly. A lot of those I know tend to moan about their staff, but I don't mind as long as they're efficient.

It's time to get ready, now where is my war paint? It's almost therapeutic, compiling a selection of cosmetics; choosing the correct scent to project the image you want; which jewels will make my social status apparent without appearing gaudy. Every stroke of a makeup brush, every spritz of a perfume must be calculated. I will be breath-taking.

* * *

Standing before my floor length mirror even I am astounded by the image facing me. My charcoal hair is panned back with diamond pins, my eyes lined with a smoky kohl, lips painted a deep blood red and my golden skin is blemish free. Exquisite is a word I'd use, the way the satin clings to my generous curves and the way the corset enhances my full chest: Every man will want me, and every woman will want to be me. As it should be.

I search fruitlessly for any flaws, even the light catches the delicate bead work and makes me look radiant. I selected an earthy musk with touches of vanilla for my perfume, and a single gold choker coupled with a ruby signet ring for my accessories. I can imagine the avalanche of compliments I'll face this evening, and my full lips pull into a genuine smile: I am a work of art, and all art deserves to be appreciated. Looking over my shoulder I notice the Algarde twins are bickering, as usual, they have not even spared me a glance in all of my splendour and that simply will not do.

"By the grace of the Capitol, will you two shut up?"

The effect is instantaneous as the blonde twins jump from the bed, instantly showering me with compliments: I hear the word statuesque and preen as they covet my dress, comment on my unparalleled taste levels and so on. It's good for a girls ego.

"You'll be the Belle of the Ball."

Gracie cuts in, her amber eyes glowing with sincerity and I spare her an indulgent smile. I give her my hand, and she instantly begins to fawn over the matte plum colour of my nails. I eye Tobin, the young man resembles his sister but he isn't as verbose- he nods approvingly, circling me with his well-attuned stare. I stand perfectly upright, cocking my hip to the side: Silently daring him to find a singular issue with the aesthetic I've created for tonight. A few moments pass before he claps his hands together and grins.

"I think the more appropriate compliment would be: Goddess of the Gala."

I nod towards him in thanks. The Algarde twins are of a similar social standing to myself, but while Gracie is a little vapid and easily led: Tobin is perceptive and more difficult to impress. But tonight I could charm the President himself into giving me a Capitol citizenship: I am untouchable.

"Thank you both, tonight truly is important. And I want you both to know I appreciate the compliments- and feel free to describe me as statuesque as often as you can, I liked that. But no, with this 'war' business: It really impacted on my mother's trade proposals- effectively nullifying her life's work. Thankfully, everything is coming together and we're back on track. Tonight is truly the next step, for myself, my parents and you- my friends who always have a kind word to say, I appreciate it."

Gracie applauds and I give the simple girl a small smile, she's incredibly good for boosting one's self-esteem. Tobin nods his head politely, probably thinking I sound like a spoiled brat; I return in kind as we all know that Tobin once refused to enter a diamond mine because he was wearing fine leather moccasins: Who's spoiled now. Gracie's exuberances dims somewhat as she quietens and seems to become thoughtful. I'm half a mind to call for the maid, if the vibrant blonde begins to show signs of rational judgement it could be the precursor to the apocalypse. I smirk at my sardonic musings, Tobin simply rolls his eyes.

"You know what? It is despicable that happened to you Cali. It really is, I mean District One was never involved in these silly 'Dark Days' and now two of us- are going to have to-"

Words fail the girl and she begins to cry earnestly, I would attempt to comfort her but I am not risking her crying and somehow marking my dress. Instead I reach out and pat her shoulder while Tobin pulls her into a hug. Where did that even come from? We were talking about the Gala, and she ended up whinging about these 'Dark Days' of Panem. I do not know how that girls mind works. Tobin is whispering empty words of comfort and I head to pour myself a much deserved glass of champagne.

"Gracie, we may not have played hosts to terrorists or had Peacekeepers trawling the streets, but there was still-"

I'm bored of this. Since they were announced, everyone has done nothing but discuss the Hunger Games. What do they mean? What will happen? Unless you're the President or that Corrine Snow woman- nobody knows, so I don't see the point in torturing myself or others by talking about the 'what ifs'. I much prefer focussing on certainties and one thing I am certain of, is that this Gala is more important right about now. I drain the glass of champagne before clearing my throat loud enough to draw the attention of the twins.

"Is this really the conversation we want to be having? Gracie, I agree- it's a little sad but the Hunger Games are happening and crying over them isn't going to change that. All it will do is possibly make us late if we need to fix your makeup- we have much more pressing matters to attend to."

That may have been a little brusque, but sometimes you need to shock people into reality. Gracie, at least, stops crying and instantly pulls out a compact mirror to ensure her makeup has not- in fact- run; Tobin however looks at me as if I've grown a second head ad I supress the violent urge to roll my eyes. I may like the young man, but he has an annoying habit of contradicting me at every corner and I can see that tonight is no different by the set of his jaw.

"More pressing matters than the possibility of being taken from our homes and thrown into an Arena where the only rule is kill or be killed? What can be more pressing than that, Cali?"

He looks aghast, and that really irks me. I can basically see him trying to climb on a moral high horse and I have no patience for that this evening. The Annual Business Gala will not be overshadowed by the Hunger Games, I won't allow it- I roll my eyes at his theatrics. People die every day, people are murdered every day- the only real difference is that it will be televised.

"Well, Tobin- in all honesty, yes. Those liberal Wilde's are protesting the proposed trade agreement my mother put forward. Whining about minimum wages and controlling the number of hours people work, to prevent stress and the risk of injury related to 'excessive' working hours. It's really starting to grate on my last nerve."

I look towards Gracie for her inevitable support but she is fiddling with the hem of her fuchsia dress, like a child afraid of being scolded. This doesn't bode well, I turn to Tobin and as expected he is wearing his 'I am about to try and educate you' expression: An expression I could do without seeing shaping his elfin features.

"Cali- I know you may not like to hear it but they are valid points. A safe and happy work force-"

I hold up my hand to cut him off. I will not have someone come into my home and preach at me like some rabid morphling addict picked up from the streets of some outlier District. He's always considered himself smart, but Tobin certainly lacks a sense of self-preservation if he wants to continue contradicting me. It's always funny at first, but then he begins to patronise me and I am not having it today of all days.

"Tobin, if I wanted your opinions on fiscal policy and work force morale- rest assured I would have asked for them. Let me be frank, you both need to leave- so I can compose myself before the Gala. If I were you, I'd avoid me at least until tomorrow."

Tobin appears to realise that he's stepped over some invisible line, nodding his head in agreement he heads towards the dresser and begins to gather his belongings. Gracie opens her mouth, an apology on her brother's behalf on the tip of her tongue; but with my patented 'do not presume to test me' glare she is sent scurrying after her brother. Deep breaths, tonight Cali you must wow the crowds- not imagine the plethora of ways you could happily beat sense into tweedle dipshit and tweedle dim.

* * *

The night has been a resounding success. My Mother has been radiant since the Bill of Gold Commerce was signed by Mayor Fortescue himself, I have played the role of dutiful daughter: Posing for photographs, exchanging mindless chit chat with the daughter's and young wives of political powerhouses of the District.

Plus, there has not been a singular person whose eyes haven't followed me around the room; bountiful compliments and offers to take me for dinner. It's almost addictive the feeling of being desired and with this business model my Mother has devised, I am even more desirable. It's almost perfect, the wine tastes sweeter and the chandeliers glitter brightly. I said I'd wow the crowds, and I did more than that; I enchanted them with my demure persona, excited them with my smart remarks and astounded them with my beauty. All in a day's work.

"Well if it isn't Cali Topaz. Still forcing those people to work their fingers to the bone,"

And the moment is ruined, the proverbial sunshine of the evening's success is marred by the arrival of the grey cloud called Dorian Wilde. The wine becomes bitter, and the shimmer of the chandelier dims as he leans haphazardly against the ornate pillar. His mere presence makes my blood begin to boil, instead I simper sweetly while his classically handsome features are distorted by a smug smirk.

"Wilde. Are you still trying to procreate with anything that has a vagina, pulse optional."

The scathing remark is delivered in the sweetest tone I can muster while in his presence. His grey eyes glitter in mirth, and he runs a hands through his auburn locks before he places his hand against his chest. Feigning pain as he mockingly falls against the pillar. His eyes narrow as he waves his finger mockingly in my direction.

"Oh how you wound me Princess. However will I go on, when the fearsome Ice Queen has wounded me so?"

He looks completely relaxed as if we were discussing the weather rather than exchanging acidic barbs. Something about it irks me, irrationally so, why is it that the one person who is immune to my razor wit- is the very same person who burrows beneath my skin and aggravates me in a way no other can. I have an overwhelming urge to shower him with the chardonnay in the crystal glass I hold with a vice grip, but that is the exact kind of reaction that cretin desires. And I would be damned if I gave that smarmy bastard anything he wanted.

I saunter closer to the self-proclaimed 'charmer', my hips swaying side to side until I'm close enough to smell the pine undertones to his cologne, count the thick eyelashes framing his silvery eyes and hear every stuttering breath as it escapes his parted lips. It's empowering, his eyes slowly beginning to hood with lust as he falls under my spell.

"If I wanted to hurt you Wilde, you'd be hurt. Never question that."

I smile almost baring my teeth, his eyes skim my body hungrily before he chuckles to himself. His eyes bright and his posture returns to its previous state of relaxation. Seconds ago he seemed enchanted and now he's as smug as ever. It's unsettling and I grit my teeth as he winks at me unashamedly.

"I think you could benefit from a ride on the Wilde side Cali, I'd make sure to removed that stick you have shoved so far up your shapely backside."

Without warning, he lurches forwards and presses a chaste kiss and presses something into my hand. He steps away and saunters off before I can regain my composure and acquaint my shoe with his own shapely backside. Deep breaths, I look at the card he pressed into my hand:

_**You know where to find me Ice Queen**_

_**-Dorian Wilde**_

What a presumptuous prick. How dare he proposition me like that, as if I would ever give a slimeball like Dorian Wilde the time of day. I hastily down the drink before signalling for it to be refilled. It feels as though he has one up on me, and that makes me livid.

* * *

My head is throbbing as I gracelessly fall into consciousness. I try to open my eyes but find my retinas assaulted by the amber hues of day break. My mouth is drier than the deserts on the out skirts of One, opening my eyes fully I look around the room and feel my heart drop into my stomach. I'm as naked as the day I was born, and I've woken up in a room that is certainly not my own with the mint green walls and peach accents. Turning over I see the auburn locks of Dorian Wilde and I almost gag at the sudden rush of self loathing.

I remember the way his long fingers caressed every inch of my body, the way he tasted my skin with the tip of his tongue and as he swallowed my frantic moans as he brought me to climax more than once. I would be much happier if it was only a passionate kiss with a generous amount of hand action but as I try to slide from the bed I feel the slickness between my thighs and the dull ache in my lower abdomen that tells me, without a doubt, that I definitely took a ride on the 'Wilde side'.

The thought sickens me, and in that moment I vow never to touch another drop of chardonnay for as long as I live: It's obviously hazardous to my social, mental and physical health. Who knows what kind of venereal diseases my body may be playing host to after a 'roll in the hay' with that moron.

I discretely navigate the darkened room, hastily pulling my clothes on as I find them scattered around; silently praying that the suave idiot remains asleep. Promising whichever unseen deity that may be listening that I would never do anything like this again, as I pull on my stiletto it seems my prayers were unanswered.

"And just where are you off to, Wildcat?"

Pulling myself to my full height, I turn to fix him with a disdainful glare: He is lay there, bare for the world to see; silver eyes heavy with sleep, hair a complete mess from where I had run my fingers through it and his trademark smug grin on his face. He'd be considered cute if he were not such a proverbial thorn in my side, although he's definitely been a thorn elsewhere as of last night. I am practically seething as he lays there completely at ease.

"I am going home to bathe, and attempt to wash the filth that is you from my body."

He yawns and stretches, I cannot help but notice as his pale skin pulls along his sculpted abs. He remains unbothered by my attempts to rattle his seemingly unshakeable confidence. He just nods towards a mirror at a vanity table, and I cringe: My ebony hair is wild, pulled form the coiffed style I had worn the previous evening; my makeup, painstakingly applied to present the image of perfection is smudged and worn away from sweat- my lips are as swollen as Dorian's and in that moment I can almost feel his stare at my back; reminding me of the way he teased and pleased me the previous night. Scarily as I shudder involuntarily, I cannot pinpoint if it was from despair or desire.

"See you around, Kitten."

He simply rolls away, presumably to go back to sleep: I'm almost offended until I notice the crimson lines marring his back and shoulders, it looks as though he's been ravaged by a rabid animal: He may have shown me the Wilde side, but it was definitely me leaving my mark on him. Feeling invigorated I pull the door open.

"Yeah, in your dreams dipshit."

He chuckles good naturedly, as I toss my hair back and strut from the room. My hips swaying as I give him my favourite one fingered salute: His laughter becomes more pronounced and as I leave I hear him mutter the words that almost make me pause.

"Every night."

* * *

**And there we go: Cicero, submitted by david12341, and Cali, submitted by crossroadsphan. You also met their District partners, Ophelia Rimbaud and Dorian Wilde. Let me know what you think of the dynamics and all that jazz.**

**As I said above, this chapter was going to include Cassian but I wanted to update and I am too tired to finishing editing his POV. That will be uploaded tomorrow, and from that point going forwards we will have 3 POV's a chapter as the Tributes are introduced.**

**Let me know what you thought about each character, and take a look at the Tribute List on my profile- solely on their name, is there any Tribute you're curious about?**

**-Andii**


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